It Must Be True
by SPOONS Secret Agent Alice
Summary: If Mamma says it, it must be true. That's how we all grew up thinking, right? But does it ever really end up being reality?


**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.**

**A/N: Okay, so in English we learned about synesthesia which is using sounds to describe places, colors to describe food, smells to describe people, etc. Essentially, synesthesia is referring to cross-sensory metaphors. And we learned this technique using Sandra Cisneros's novel ****The House on Mango Street****. I enjoyed reading the intricate wording of Cisneros and, in my opinion, the structurally simple sentences seemed so much more than just simple. I am using this one-shot to try my hand at synesthesia as well as attempting to imitate Cisneros's writing style. I fell in love with it and I think mine is already quite similar, but nonetheless. No Copyrighting infringement here, it's just reminiscent to the original. So please review telling me if I have done well. **

**It Must be True:**

It's the sweet smell of honeysuckle in late spring, the lonesome song of the Nightingale just before sunrise. It is the time all is peaceful and soothing.

Calm, the quiet lulling of ocean waves lost in the sea, Mamma's voice humming from the rocking chair in the corner of the room as you fall asleep. Tender and embracing.

It's never exactly the same. Sometimes stars come out from sleeping. Sometimes it rains: soft as lips on foreheads, violent as knives in flesh. Sometimes night is just night. Black and silent like dreamless sleeps.

Twinkling stars stream across the dark blackness, lighting the way for that man I always see from my rusted bedroom window. He walks with a limp and Quasimodo shoulders. He wears the same thing every night, a funny looking top hat that's too small with a too big trench coat. He looks tired, though I can never see his face. His body is large but tries to be small and his hands are always in his pockets and his neck is always covered by the collar of his trench coat like he wants to disappear almost.

Mamma calls for me to step away from the window like she does every night. I do, but reluctantly. I could sit looking out of my cracked window for hours into the night.

16th avenue looks less scary at night. The old house on the corner that Jessie says is haunted stays hidden in the dark so that I don't have to see it and it doesn't scare me so much when I can pretend it's just not there. The yellow-white paint is peeling and the stairs that lead to the porch are infested with termites and all jaggetylike. The windows are boarded over except for the one at the very top that's broken and has no lights. The yard has toilets and washing machines in the front and even a few huge black tires. I asked Mamma why they were there and all she said was that the people that lived there before we moved into the neighborhood just forgot where they went. I don't know how people could forget where those things go, but if Mamma says it, it must be true.

I crawl into bed; the lamp in the far corner on the floor because I have no tables is the only thing keeping the night from seeping in under the window. Too bad it can't keep the chilly air away because the draft is so bad sometimes I wake up with dead blue lips and my fingers are so numb I can't hold onto anything. Mamma tucks the sheets around me and her lips feather across my forehead after she pushes my dark brown hair out of the way. She tells me sweet dreams, just like every night, but tonight it feels different like it feels like the wind. Blowing once over me and never the same blow twice. It's always gone for good.

She turns off my lamp and walks through the curtain that serves as my bedroom door as she whispers goodnight across the room and I hear the squawking of crows as the floorboards give loudly under her feet. The room is dark and empty though it never feels empty. The noises from the street next over crawl through the cracks of my window and the yelling of Mamma and the man that comes to visit a lot, Phil, can never be blocked out by my curtain. Every night is the same, some nights worse than others.

I squeeze my eyes tight so the bad things can't get me because Mamma always says if you keep your eyes shut tight they all disappear and if Mamma says it, it must be true.

I can only keep my eyes shut so tight for so long before my temples hurt and I have to open them again. I see fuzzy little color spots all around the room as I blink. I blink really fast to see them shoot fast around the room to make the plain white walls less plain and white. That makes my head hurt even worse so I get out of bed as quietly as a mouse in a house looking for crumbs to eat at night and press my forehead against the window. It's fall so the window has just begun to chill from the nighttime. It helps to make my head hurt less. I should probably get back into bed before Mamma comes in to check on me and before I get too cold. I don't want to, but I hear Mamma and the crows so I tiptoe back into my bed and close my eyes quickly.

Mamma comes in and I see her standing by the window. She turns toward me and my eyes are shut, but opened just enough to where she thinks I'm asleep but that I can see her. The light coming from the moon lights her up like an angel on top of a big green Christmas tree. Her deep brown hair that's the same as mine but softer and prettier and is gingerbread all year round is like a lion's mane, wild and free. She takes a big huff of breath and turns back to the window before she goes back out to go to sleep. I don't know if Phil is still over but I try not to think about him.

I think about Jessie, my best friend. Well, she's really my only friend. She has a huge room with bright pink walls and sparkly things on the ceilings. Her bed is really big and soft and fluffy. I sat down on it once when I was over her house playing with her dollies. Her daddy always gives her nice things and she always likes to show me and sometimes she even lets me play with her. She said her mamma died and when I asked her why she yelled at me to leave and slammed the door in my face. I asked Mamma why she did and Mamma said that she was just sad and not to bother her and that she'll be okay soon. I didn't bother her because if Mamma says it, it must be true.

My eyes get too heavy to keep awake and I finally go to sleep, just like Mamma wants. Tonight is a nightmare night. It's the nightmare that makes me scared for Mamma. I can hear her yelling. She needs someone's help but I'm trapped in my sheets. The sheets that are always too thin to keep me warm but thick enough to keep me put. I wriggle and thrash but I am always too stuck. Mamma needs my help, she screams for me. I can hear her. It's almost like it's real. But I know it's just a dream. A nightmare. And I can never wake myself up.

When the morning glory light shines brightly through my window, I stretch and yawn. I rub the sleep from my eyes and slowly make my way out of bed. I grab a change of clothes and undergarments and trudge to the bathroom that Mom, sometimes Phil, and I share. Mom must still be asleep because she'd normally be up singing and making coffee. I monotonously go through my morning routine of showering, brushing my teeth, and combing my unruly hair before changing. I make sure I look presentable before I go to the kitchenette and see Mom sitting in her chair. She looks sick. Pale and hollow. Her pretty eyes aren't so pretty anymore. Blue gone black and dead. Brown drowned and dull. What happened to my Mamma?

She tells me she's fine and to get myself breakfast. She used to make me a pancake or biscuit but all I get now is a plain Poptart. It doesn't even have that color tile on the top. I even get myself a small glass of water. I sit down and eat my small meal. It's the icky apple kind that I don't like, but I eat it all to make Mom happy. She smiles tiny at me when I finish the last of my water that tastes like copper and other not-so-tasty things.

Mamma left. I don't know where she went, but Mamma isn't here anymore. Mom says she's fine and if Mamma says it, it must be true.

But Mamma's not here so how can it be true?


End file.
